Touchstone
by SpellCleaver
Summary: Luke Organa comes face to face with the tragic past he knows nothing about when Jobal Naberrie sells her bookshop to a man from outside Anchorhead. A man who, mysteriously enough, has the same strange power as Luke...
1. Chapter 1

**This fic was written for Slx99, as part of the 2019 Secret Santa Fic Exchange! It'll be four chapters long, which I'll be posting over the next two days or so, and I hope everyong enjoys it!**

* * *

**1.**

The old, cracked cobblestones were worn under Luke's feet as he paused on the corner of the street, breathing deeply.

The local high street went on bustling around him, but he stayed quiet. Clenched his fists in their gloves. Listened to the noise, the Christmas-shopping crowds knocking into his rucksack, the rasp of his many-layered winter clothes over his skin.

He reached up to grip his rucksack straps—

And someone brushed past him.

The force of it tugged down his sleeve and for an instant, there was skin-on-skin contact, a rush of—

_—panic, he was going to be _late_, and Camie had been eyeing Windy again recently and if she thought he didn't care about her anymore—_

—something that quickly receded, dissipating with the air he breathed out in a sigh.

He tugged his sleeve down.

Then, and only then, did he find the courage to walk down the high street, dreading what he'd see.

When he saw it, he did a double take.

It was exactly as he remembered.

Darklighter's butchers sat on one side of it, their doors open and bright as usual. Huff gave him a wave and a smile; Luke waved back.

On the other side still stood the arts and crafts shop Luke's dad bought his wool and knitting needles from; Amilyn, with her hair dyed a pale blue today, wandered around the shelves peering at the racks of paint: poster, acrylic, oil. She was too out of it to wave at him, which suited Luke just fine. His gaze was riveted to the second-hand bookshop sandwiched between them.

A sign proclaimed the place _Naberrie's Books_; that was unchanged. The tables laid out in the front window, with boxes of novels and novellas; also unchanged. Even the windows looked identical, still with the distinctive shine of that absurdly tough protective glass Jobal had always got cryptic about whenever he asked.

Nothing about the shop had changed at all.

Luke... narrowed his eyes, and pushed the door open. Actually, there was one change: no ear-splitting creak heralded his entrance, but there _was_ a shiny new bell at the top. It tinkled.

A shadow behind the desk moved; Luke hadn't even noticed him until then. "We're currently closed for a brief refurbishment," a voice rasped. "Please come back later."

Luke didn't move. His gaze wandered around the new shelves, the stacks of books disorganised and cluttered along them. His mind seemed in limbo.

The man had noticed his reticence. He turned, annoyed, and Luke caught a glimpse of a moon-white face cratered with scars. He immediately moved his gaze to the eyes—as blue as the lake at noon in the summer.

"Can I help you?"

Luke nodded—then caught himself, and shook his head. "I... I'm Luke Organa. Did Jobal—"

"Jobal mentioned you, yes." The man squinted at him. "I understand you were one of her volunteers?"

"I was her only volunteer." Luke's gaze perused the shelves, and he wasn't even sure if it was a morbid curiosity with how _wrong_ it all looked or a subconscious attempt not to gape at the man's face.

"Is something wrong?"

Luke's gaze snapped back to him. "Oh, it's nothing—"

"Spare me the pleasantries, boy. I'm sure the mayor taught you beautiful ones, but I have no patience for them. Spit it out."

He swallowed. "It just looks wrong. I'm sorry, it's nothing, I promise. It's just jarring."

The man leaned on the counter; something about the movement meant Luke was surprised his limbs didn't creak. "What looks wrong?"

"Not _wrong_, sorry, just different."

The man huffed. "Fine. What looks _different_, then?"

Luke blinked.

Then he raised his gaze and pointed, shakily. "Well. Jobal used to have the fantasy and sci-fi books together, rather than separate. It was marked with a pretty handmade sign."

"Well if the sign was handmade and Jobal moved down to the coast then I'm afraid I can't replicate—"

"I made it."

The man stared. Luke fidgeted.

He continued, "I made the signs. Jobal always said her handwriting was a chicken scrawl"—though, come to think of it, perhaps that was rude, perhaps he shouldn't be sharing that with a literal stranger—"and my father taught me calligraphy, so..."

The man frowned. "You _are_ the mayor's son, correct? Breha Organa's boy?"

Luke nodded; the man snorted. "Can't say I expected _calligraphy_ to be the first thing on Bail Organa's mind, but it does fit with what I know of him."

Luke laughed and he relaxed. Marginally.

"Why don't you tell me how it used to be," he suggested. "I have no intention of changing anything about this shop; the Naberries' way... worked very well."

He held out his hand. "I'm Darth Vader."

Luke smiled. He stepped forward to shake it—

"Do you always wear your gloves indoors?"

The man's (hairless) eyebrows were raised, head tilted. Luke flushed. "I'm always cold."

The man continued to give him that look. So Luke flushed again and, stripping his gloves off, braced himself for the handshake.

Skin touch and images, stronger than anything he'd ever sensed before, exploded behind his eyes—

_—a woman in a wedding dress, back turned but still achingly familiar; an old man resting a comforting hand on his shoulder; fire and stone floor against his cheek and _pain_—_

Luke, for all that he'd been _expecting_ it, yanked his hand back immediately.

That was so much more _intense_ than usual.

Vader was watching him with eyes narrowed to slits. His eyebrows were high on his face, his lips flattened in a thin line—a frown.

"Luke... Organa, you said your name was, correct?"

Luke nodded mutely.

Vader's brow creased further.

"Alright," he said eventually. "I would be grateful if you could continue to volunteer here. I will need your help to rearrange all the shelves that Jobal," he glanced around, "generously put away for me."

Luke was, to be frank, still pretty freaked out.

But this _was_ what he wanted.

So he bent down to pick up one of the books still in the boxes on the floor, revelling in the rush of excitement, surprise, that rang in his chest from its previous reader, and smiled hesitantly.

"Sure."

* * *

"How was the bookshop?" Bail asked, dumping far too much spaghetti onto Luke's plate. Luke wrinkled his nose at it. "What? You're getting too skinny."

"Leave Luke alone, Bail," Breha chided, finally putting down the newspaper she'd been reading and letting the frown fade from her face. She mock-glared at her husband across the kitchen table.

"It's alright, Mum." Luke looked his father in the eye as he splatted far too much tomato sauce onto the pasta, not even flinching as a few scarlet drops flecked his blue t-shirt. "You know Artoo will get the rest."

A cold, wet nose shoved at his knee at the sound of the name, and looked grinned down at the grey Scottie doing his best to look cute and innocent.

"You are _not_ giving the rest to the dog."

"You know the drill, Dad. You give me too much, Artoo gets it." Luke sprinkled parmesan over his meal; some skipped away to join the tomato sauce on his t-shirt.

Bail grimaced. "Please put on a tea towel."

"I'm not wearing a _bib_. Bibs are for babies."

"They're also for sixteen-year-olds who eat too messily, put one on."

"How was your day, Mum?" Luke asked, turning to Breha. Bail huffed.

Breha smiled. "As good as ever, I suppose."

"Still having trouble with the— what're they called—"

"Imperials," Breha supplied, wrinkling her nose elegantly, "yes."

"It's been over fifteen years. Won't they quit?"

"I suppose the string of successes they had with Tarkin in charge probably emboldened them," Bail chimed in. Sometimes Luke forgot his father had been a politician himself, before he'd retired early to live at home and look after Luke. "But he's dead, isn't he?"

"Eyewitness accounts and DNA tests confirmed it."

"So." Bail finished dumping spaghetti on his own plate and—with a pointed glance at Luke—dug in. "They'll collapse soon enough. Unless they can get a new leader as good as he was. Or as Palpatine."

"Yes." Breha finally unfolded her hands from their solemn, mayor's position and picked up her fork. "The damage Palpatine did to the city can't—"

"Was he the one who killed my birth mother?"

The clink of utensils against china stilled.

Two sets of startled, pained brown eyes were looking at him, and he swallowed.

"She died just before he fell, didn't she?" he justified lamely. "And... I thought..."

Bail and Breha exchanged a look; Bail opened his mouth, paused, then closed it again.

Luke looked between them. "Dad?"

Bail admitted, "It... might well have been him, Luke." He grimaced. "But there's no way to know for sure who killed your mother. Or your father."

Luke frowned and looked down at his lap. Artoo shoved his head into it and Luke's hand stroked him almost on instinct.

"Luke?" Breha leaned forward to put her hand on his shoulder, careful as always not to accidentally brush his skin. "Is something the matter?"

"Yes," Bail said, "did anything bring this on?"

Luke shrugged. "The new man who's running the bookshop," he said. "Vader."

"Strange name," Bail commented.

Luke blinked. "You don't know him? He seemed to know you."

"No." Bail frowned. "Perhaps I met him years ago, in my politician days, and he remembers me from then?"

"Maybe." It didn't ring true to Luke. "He's nice enough. Wants me to keep helping out there—to keep everything the same, _exactly_ the same." He frowned. "But when we shook hands, he made me take my gloves off, and... well, y'know what happens."

Breha frowned. "Did you see anything that upset you?"

"I saw..." It sounded stupid, but Luke said it anyway; he knew they wouldn't judge. "A woman in a wedding dress, from the back. It reminded me of wedding photos of my mother." He stabbed his fork into the spaghetti. "I don't know, it's been bothering me."

"Well," Breha tried, though she didn't sound like she believed it, "a lot of people knew Padmé."

"How many were at her _wedding_?"

"Perhaps she met—what was his name? Darth Vader? Perhaps she met him on one of her mercy missions," Breha suggested, and squeezed Luke's shoulder lightly. "But if you're uncomfortable at the shop I'm sure no one would blame you if—"

"No. I want to keep doing it."

Breha picked up her fork again. "Well then, make sure to report back." She smiled at him, a twinkle in her eye. "Let us know if anything interesting happens."

_It already has_.

Luke... debated mentioning how strange the contact had felt, like he'd seen and been seen in return. Like the man had _looked_ right through him with the sort of piercing clarity Luke was told he had, when he did his _looking _himself.

But no.

His parents... as kind as they were, they did not have his... _gift_. They would not understand.

He shoved a forkful of spaghetti into his mouth and tried not to think about it.

* * *

The moment he got up to his room, he pulled out his computer and searched _Padmé Amidala Naberrie_.

Pictures flashed up, as they always did, of blood and ash-pale skin and a face slack in death, body on a funeral bier. News articles abounded, all years old. The most recent one was from perhaps eighteen months previous, titled: _Padmé Amidala, fifteen years on: What was her legacy?_

He clicked through and read it, but it said nothing he didn't already know. She'd been the mayor. She'd married a man called Anakin Skywalker, become pregnant (with Luke, though it wasn't like the article knew that)... and died before birth, in an attack by the gang whose activities had taken a hit by her reforms.

Palpatine _had_ been the one to order her death. He'd died in a warehouse that burnt down a week later, body scarred and burnt almost beyond recognition. There were pictures in the article, but Luke felt queasy looking at them.

He wondered if the deaths were connected.

He thought of Vader, and wondered if his scars were connected as well.

He chewed on his lip.

* * *

Luke never went to the shop Tuesdays or Wednesdays, and he'd been busy with homework on Monday, so he didn't see Vader again until Thursday.

"I was beginning to think you weren't coming back," Vader said by way of greeting. Luke glanced around to see he'd taken Luke's meticulously drawn diagram into account; the shop was, slowly, starting to resemble what it had looked like before.

Luke didn't know why Vader was so set on keeping it the same, but he was glad of it.

Jobal had been his grandmother, even if both of them had accepted that it was best for it not to become widely known that Padmé's child had survived. The shop had been her home—and Luke's main connection to Padmé.

He did not want it to change.

"I was always going to come back," he said, dumping his rucksack. "I just had clubs to go to. School to catch up on."

"Mmhm." Vader picked up a pencil and scratched a price on the inside cover of the book. "Which clubs?"

"Languages, debate, engineering..."

"The first two make sense for a politician's son," Vader said. "The last one doesn't."

"I—" Impotent... _irritation_ surged in him; his parents had politely dismissed him from doing it enough as it was. He didn't need this stranger judging him too. "I _enjoy_ it."

Vader looked... taken aback. "Apologies, young one. I enjoyed engineering when I was your age, as well."

Luke blinked.

Well.

That was a thing.

"It's similar to these books, actually," he said airily. "I like picking up used pieces, _feeling_ their history and emotions and making something new; same way I like leafing through a book and knowing someone else's experience of it, before adding my own."

Luke watched Vader out of the corner of his eye with bated breath...

Vader said, "Interesting."

Then he said, "Now. You told me Jobal had handwritten signs indicating the genres?"

* * *

Other than Vader's increasingly suspicious behaviour, nothing happened until the following Sunday.

Luke was slapping stickers on the books, smiling as the gentle waves of joy, peace, excitement washed over him. He leafed through them idly momentarily, before he moved them out of the pile and stacked them.

The bell at the door rang.

"We're not open right now," Luke called out on instinct, but then he heard Vader's sharp intake of breath and glanced up.

And cringed.

That man was _old_.

He immediately chided himself for thinking such an uncharitable thing; his parents would not approve. But... it was the truth.

The man's wrinkles looked like they'd been carved into his skin with a blunt butter knife, his eyes sitting in deep hollows in his face. He walked... not _hunched over_, but dinosaur-like. Luke squinted; he thought his hands might be trembling slightly, but he wasn't sure.

Vader growled, "Get _out_."

Luke shot him an inquisitive glance.

And it was that movement, unfortunately, that made the man notice him.

"It's a pleasure to see you again as well, Vader," he said, smiling. His teeth were too perfectly white for his scarred and rotting face. "But I don't think I recognise your companion?"

"Luke, go and check we have enough stickers in the back."

"Ah. _Luke_, is it?" Those hooded eyes surveyed him, then widened slowly. A smile stretched his lips. "I don't suppose that would be Luke _Organa_, the mayor's son?"

Luke, inexplicably frozen in place by that draconian stare, only nodded nervously. He had his manners after all.

Vader said, "Luke—"

The man stepped forward, holding his hand out. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance."

He'd held out his _left_ hand.

Luke glanced at his own hands. His right still wore the glove, but his left... he'd taken it off to handle the books.

He swallowed. Oh.

Oh dear.

Still.

He reached up to grasp the man's hand, his chest only betraying the slightest hitch of a gasp when—

—_a darkness, cold, malice, a searing flame and a gunshot and a baby's scream, rage the likes of which he'd never felt rent him in two—_

—they made contact. Luke forced the images out—or, _tried_—and let out a deep breath.

The old man smiled and let go.

"Luke," Vader said, "_go into the back room_."

Luke went.

* * *

They were sitting together in the living room that evening, Luke frowning over his sheet of Huttese homework, Breha frowning over the latest updates sent to her phone and Bail peacefully knitting his fifth (mismatched) sock of the week when Luke was jerked out of his swamp of declension confusion by a, "You've been quiet all evening."

Luke glanced up at his dad, who peered at him over thin-rimmed reading glasses with a gentle, _genteel_ smile.

Luke tried to smile back, and grimaced instead.

"What's wrong?"

Luke grimaced further. "Earlier."

"Ah." Bail put down his knitting; even Breha glanced up then, to exchange a look with him. "Did something happen when you went out with Biggs?"

"Did you finally... you know?"

"For the last time, Mum, we're not dating." Luke rolled his eyes and huffed. "And no."

"So it was at the shop," Bail surmised, tapping one knitting needle against his knee. "What was it?"

Luke shrugged. "Some old guy came in."

Breha laughed—gave him a pointed look, but laughed. "I didn't know you were open."

"We're not, yet. But this guy just walked right in and acted all... creepy."

"How so?"

"Like..." Luke wrinkled his nose. "Like that politician from Mos Eisley, that time made me go to the function for the opening of the Tatooine aqueduct."

"I see." And yep, his parents looked worried. "Did he...?"

"No. He just... asked if I was the mayor's son and said it was nice to meet me. Without introducing himself. Then he shook my hand—and made me do it without wearing my gloves."

Bail and Breha _definitely_ exchanged an alarmed look at that.

"Do you think you—"

"He looked too happy when I flinched to have not."

Another loaded glance. "What did he look like?"

"Old," Luke reiterated. "Short, but more because he was hunched over. Pale and _really_ scarred, like Vader."

Bail frowned. "Did he know Vader?"

"Yes. Definitely. Vader clearly hated his guts—he kept telling me to go into a backroom and he sounded worried. Kept telling the man to get out, but he didn't go."

"Did _you_ go?"

"After he shook my hand."

One last weighted look, then...

"Luke," his mother said. "When—"

"Breha."

"What?" She shot Bail a look. Not a _glare_, but something firm and unyielding. "He's sixteen: he's old enough to at least _talk_ about it."

Bail pressed his lips together and pointedly resumed knitting.

Luke frowned, Huttese work forgotten, and leaned forwards.

His mother continued, "Padmé was in the old town hall—you know, that museum out by the train station—when she was attacked, presumably on Palpatine's orders. She was technically on maternity leave, since you were due to be born any day, but she was visiting Sabé and the others who were acting mayor while she was away. Anakin was with her.

"The intruders had set a fire and the building was in the midst of evacuation, but men came after her with guns and knives. She and Anakin had been separated for some reason.

"She was shot dead.

"Sabé had her rushed to the hospital, where they barely managed to save you, and Anakin never came out of that building alive—died in the fire, we think."

Luke swallowed.

He wondered if he should feel something beyond numb shock: pride and sorrow for the mother he'd never known. Pity for the father who'd loved him so much. Hatred for the man who'd taken it all from him.

But then he thought of Jobal, Sola—the aunt who'd moved away from the memories of the town before he could open his eyes—and the quiet melancholy in their faces whenever they looked at him. The tight ferocity in their hugs.

The overwhelming grief and _longing_ he sensed every time they slipped up and accidentally made bare skin contact with him.

That longing gnawed at his chest now.

He _loved_ his parents. He adored being an Organa. But he knew he would have loved being an official member of the Skywalker-Naberrie family as well.

Bail and Breha were his godparents anyway. He could have had _both_...

...if only they'd lived.

But they hadn't.

And, Luke admitted, as his parents had always known, without Anakin...

Without someone who _understood_, who _shared _this curse-like gift with him...

He was left ever so slightly _lost_.

"Palpatine died a week later, in a fire at a warehouse he used for his headquarters. It was deemed an accident, but I always suspected Dormé or Cordé did it." Breha was too refined to grimace, but her serene face contorted nonetheless. "We never heard from them again."

"_Where_ was the warehouse?" Luke found himself asking.

Bail paused his knitting, eyeing him. "You're not visiting the area. The Imperials are still at large."

"I wasn't going to visit it!"

"Then you don't need to know where it is." Bail needles clacked together pointedly. "It's history, Luke. the Imperials are in decline, Palpatine is dead—"

"Bail," Breha said.

Bail ignored her. "—and your parents would have preferred you stay safe than run around trying to avenge them."

Luke flinched. "I wasn't—"

"I know." Bail shook his head and calmed his tone. "And I'm sorry—that was harsh. But please, don't go looking. I'm sure that whatever you find, you won't like it."

Luke looked to his mother. She just nodded in agreement.

"And be careful around Vader," she added. "He seems nice enough, but...

"I don't want to lose you too."


	2. Chapter 2

.

**2.**

Luke really didn't mean to snoop.

He didn't like upsetting his parents, and while he didn't exactly have the best track record for leaving well alone when his curiosity got the better of him, he genuinely did know when not to go poking in things that were hazardous for his health.

It _really _wasn't his fault that the bus... well. The bus he took to school every morning, the bus that was never _on time_ but that he still timed to be early enough that he arrived before school started, had to divert its course past the old town hall (now refurbished as a museum), whereupon the driver shooed them all off to say that the bus was having _engine trouble_, whatever that meant, and that they'd have to take the next bus that went past that stop.

And... in any other circumstance, Luke would have just waited at the bus stop across the road from the museum. Really, he would have.

Biggs shifted on his feet beside him. "This is fun."

"Yeah," he replied idly, gaze tracking down from the steely sky to the brownish-grey spire of the museum.

They hadn't been fast enough to claim the bench at the bus stop before Camie and her friends had, so they just stood to the side. Luke rubbed at his arms and wondered if it was too early in the winter to pull out a scarf and had; the steel grey sky said no, it was not.

"Did you do the science homework?"

He repeated, "Yeah."

Biggs snorted. "Of course you did."

A smile tugged at Luke's lips as he brought his gaze back down to earth. "I'm gonna guess you didn't?"

"Of course not."

He actually laughed, at that. "You want the answers?"

Biggs just gave him a look.

Luke swung his rucksack off his back, unzipping it and feeling about for his science book almost without thought.

"Y'know, Luke," Biggs continued as he rummaged, "we've been friends for a long time."

"Mmhm."Where was that blasted book—

"And..." Biggs paused, swallowed, and stuck his hands in his coat pockets. "Well, there's a new café in town that just opened up, right opposite the library, and—"

Luke glanced up to give him a quizzical look—why so awkward?—then he paused. Beyond Biggs, through the fine mist of rain that was starting to fall, he saw a pale figure walk on the opposite side of the road.

"—well, I was wondering if you wanted to... go there? With me. But not in the... Luke?"

He tapped his shoulder. Luke ignored him.

He...

He could've sworn that was Vader.

"Luke?"

Luke jerked, nodded and continued his rummaging, eventually yanking out a book from which the wind promptly stole three sheets of notes. He barely bothered to run after them—or notice Fixer and Windy guffaw at the sight of it.

He handed it to Biggs; their fingertips brushed. An electric shock—

_—heat and embarrassment; c'mon you coward just ask him he's not gonna know if you don't; _panic; _this isn't how it was supposed to go—_

—and the book thudded to the ground.

The rain was getting harder now. Biggs swore and yanked it off the pavement before it could get any muddier or more soaked and buried it under his coat. "You okay?"

Luke jerked back.

He flushed. Hard. Those feelings he'd picked up still warmed his chest.

And it wasn't all Biggs's feelings—

"Yeah," he said, shaking his head. _Deal with that later. _"Yeah, I— I'm fine."

What was Vader doing here?

In _this_ place?

It seemed...

... convenient.

It also seemed convenient that Luke was there at all, after he'd only just had that conversation with his parents, but he chose to ignore that.

His head was ringing.

"Look after my bag," Luke murmured to a still-flustered Biggs, pulling his scarf out of his pocket and looping it around his neck. "I'll be back in a minute."

"But the bus will be here any sec— Luke?"

He was already across the street.

The museum was free to enter, run mainly on donations, so he was let in without glance. Hot on Vader's heels.

The man glanced to his right and, face contorting in something like remembered agony, he plunged further into the corridor. His pale visage reflected off of the glass cabinets featuring various archaeological finds from around the town.

Luke, frowning, followed.

The further in they got, Luke noticed, the more... traditional the architecture became. Older. Some of it painted over, but the scars and chars all too clear.

It was grander, too, all arching stone and worn away hollows, so Luke's neck hurt from looking up at it all by the time he tripped on some loose carpet.

The floor collided with his elbows and he swore, tears springing unbidden to his eyes. The crash echoed loudly around him; he yanked his head up to scan his surroundings. Images swam before his eyes; he blinked, and looked again.

The corridor actually split, here. He was on his knees in the centre of a four-way split, perfectly perpendicular to each other and each as... _grand_... as the last. The carpets were an identical shade of burgundy and darkened by no tread as they stretched on and on and on until every corridor twisted out of sight.

He was alone.

The realisation was met with more relief than panic—sure, he'd lost Vader, but no one had seen him. He'd lost Vader, so he could go back to the bus stop and apologise to Biggs for probably making them both miss the bus, continue that awkward but kinda nice conversation they'd been having, and forget this had ever happened except maybe as a passing comment to Vader later today: _hey, by the way, I saw you by the old town hall earlier_—

Then a door up ahead opened.

"...in case you need any further persuasion."

A head poked out of the door—a pale head, but not Vader's. "Are you alright?"

Luke started so badly he thought he'd faint there and then.

He blinked up at the head slowly, gradually—ever so gradually—processing the situation. He knew that face.

The old man from the bookshop.

"We heard you trip," he fussed, immediately coming out to hold out a hand, help him up. It would have been rude to refuse it, and with Luke feeling so... _disoriented_... he just took it automatically, only for a searing cold to spread through his chest, his veins, the moment their skin made contact.

The man, abnormally strong for his stature, tugged him to his feet, but Luke felt shivery, brittle as broken glass, all the way. He tried to let go but his legs... _trembled_... underneath him and the man automatically put his arm around him to steady him; Luke's top rode up slightly with the motion and those cold, cold hands planted a block of ice on the right side of his ribs as well.

He— he couldn't breathe—

"There there." A hand patted his shoulder twice, _accidentally_ brushing his neck. His senses were overloaded with cold—cold touch, cold intent, cold malice... it seeped into him and warped his brain, his vision, into colours that didn't exist. "Are you sick?"

Luke couldn't reply. HIs tongue felt heavy in his mouth.

"Vader!" the old man snapped and something in Luke's brain went _oh_. Vader?

"Come out and help me," he ordered, "oh, the poor boy doesn't seem to be feeling well."

There was another face at the door, now: sure enough, Vader's. He looked pale as a ghost—not that he didn't always, but paler. Whether that was Luke's whirring brain or the truth of things remained to be seen.

Vader stepped forwards to take Luke's other arm, careful to firmly grasp the part covered by his top, and helped him into the room.

It... would've been an office, when this was still the town hall, Luke surmised. Now it might be one for the museum curator, the archaeologists, or...

Luke shook his head, frowning. Or...

Or what?

He didn't know.

"What's wrong, child? Are you hurt?" He was pressed into an armchair; freezing hand was pressed against his cheek. Luke flinched. "Oh.

"_Oh._

"Vader," the man said. It wasn't kindness or concern in his voice anymore; it was glee. Luke doubted he'd ever felt the kindness at all. "He's an empath, too!"

The man turned to Vader, sitting on an armchair opposite, and took a seat beside Luke. "Did you know?"

"No," Vader said. Luke was at least ninety percent sure he was lying.

"But empaths are so rare," the man continued. "Is one of your parents one?"

Luke found himself speaking against his will, his tongue on autopilot: "My father."

"Bail Organa?" The man wrinkled his nose. "_He_ is an empath?"

What...? Luke shook his head at first, then more quickly. He wasn't even sure why.

"Oh, I understand." The man nodded sagely. Vader just raised a hairless eyebrow. "You were adopted?"

Luke stopped shaking his head... paused... and nodded. Once.

What—

Why did Vader look so shocked all of a sudden?"

"Of course. You don't look anything like your parents, do you?"

An astonished blue gaze, roaming over his face. Then a hand on his cheek again and that cold _split_ his head in two; he cried out.

"Oh, poor dear, I'm sorry." He was not sorry. Luke knew that; he'd sensed it. "Should we call your parents? How old are you?"

He gave Vader a pointed look even before he spoke, but Luke was too... out of it to make anything of it. He just slurred, "Sixteen."

Vader's lips flattened in a grim line.

"That's enough," he said—sharply. It yanked Luke back to the present a little bit, cleared his head; he blinked at Vader in gratitude. "I'll take him home—if he's sick, he needs to rest more than anything, not sit here nattering like an old fool."

The man sat up straight at that, but smiled slowly, like... Luke didn't even know. Like a broad-mouthed, thin-lipped chameleon. "You're right, of course.

"I hope the boy feels better in the morning."

* * *

Vader kept a tight grip on him the whole walk back to the bus stop. At first, his step was too brisk for Luke to keep up with; he jogged and tripped and stumbled, grazing his knees and elbows on the pavement, before Vader slowed down.

"What were you _thinking_?" he hissed. "What were you _doing_ in there?"

What _had_ he been thinking?

That— that Vader was an _Imperial_?

He didn't know.

"I—" he made to say. "I—"

"You weren't." Vader sighed. "I know you weren't, I'm sorry. Palpatine—"

"_Palpatine_? You mean—" Luke choked. "You— you mean, that guy was—"

"The gang leader who royally fucked over the town around the time you were born? Yes."

"—the one who killed my mother?"

Vader froze. His grip on Luke's arm tightened.

"Yes," he said quietly. "Yes he was."

Fingernails dug into Luke's arm.

Luke looked down, and... and froze, frowning.

Vader's bare hand was touching his bare arm, where his sleeve had ridden up. But Luke sensed nothing from him.

"How—"

Vader glanced down, realised, and let go. "I'm shielding myself," he said in a hurry. "You can control it, if you— you know what, not now. Later." He shook his head. "I'm sorry, I forgot was he was like. What he can do."

He shook his head again as they left the museum, gaze riveted to Luke's face. "I shouldn't have come back to this town."

"What's wrong with Anchorhead?" Luke slurred.

Vader barked a bitter laugh. "Not Anchorhead. My mum and I loved Anchorhead, after we first moved here. I met my wife here, we were going to have a child..."

He closed his eyes for a moment. "But that's all in the past now. I shouldn't have come back; I should've known he hadn't died in that fire, that he'd still be active. I'm sorry it's dragged you into this."

"I'm not."

They stopped on the pavement. Vader was so busy staring at him he barely remembered to glance right, left before crossing the road.

"Why—"

"You're— you're an... _empath_, right? You have this _thing_ I've got, with the skin on skin contact?"

"Skilled empaths don't need skin on skin contact," Vader said quietly. "It was how Palpatine made you ill and dizzy before you even entered the room, or convinced to come after and follow me."

"Really? Wait, he what—"

Vader just walked faster. Mounted the pavement and veered right, towards a nearby park.

"Wait!" Luke jogged to catch up, right past the bus stop and Biggs waiting (and staring after him). "You gotta help me! I— I don't know anyone else with this, and I don't know how to use it, and—"

"I'm not the best person to teach you."

"Then should I ask _him_?"

Vader froze, hand on the gate to enter the small park. He stared at it. "You said Palpatine killed your mother."

Luke nodded.

"Was—" Vader swallowed. "Was she... Padmé Amidala Naberrie? Jobal's daughter?"

Luke nodded again.

Vader cursed fluently, and Luke thought he might have blinked tears out of his eyes. "I see. Your father..."

"Was like me. Yes. But he can't help me, so can you?"

Vader hissed out a breath.

"Yes," he said. "I can. But... do you even understand why Palpatine _wanted_ you in that room, in that building?"

"No, but—"

"Then I won't be the one to tell you."

"Stop being so _cryptic_—"

"You're ill, young one." Vader didn't audibly raise his voice, but suddenly it _boomed_. Luke stilled. "Palpatine was messing with your head, and that will leave you feeling dizzy and nauseous for about twelve hours. I have my car nearby, I can drive you home so your— your _parents_ can look after you, and maybe once you're well again we can discuss this further. I can answer any questions you have—on empaths, and Palpatine."

He pushed the gate open. It squealed. "But until then, my car is on the other side of this park, and the sooner we get you home, the better."

Luke would die before he admitted it, but his head _was_ still pounding. He would much prefer to go home than to school, but— "I left my bag with Biggs. He's probably missed the bus because of me by now as well."

Vader cursed again. "Then I can drop him off at school, if he wants me too. But you're going home, Luke, and don't even think about turning up to the shop this afternoon.

"And maybe," he added, "I'll have a talk with your father while I'm there."

* * *

Luke pressed the doorbell to his nice, comfortable little house. Artoo yapped and Bail answered the door within moments. The smell of freshly baked bread clung to his apron.

"Luke?" he asked, instantly concerned. "Are you alright?"

He glanced up at Vader, who was tall enough to tower over them both. "And you are...?"

"Darth Vader," Vader introduced smoothly, pushing Luke forward. "I encountered him on his way to school, just when he was taken ill. I offered to drive him home."

"Thank you, Mr. Vader," Bail replied, running an _increasingly_ concerned gaze over Luke. Luke supposed he was a bit pale. "Luke, what happened?"

"I..." Luke opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. "I... don't know, actually."

Bail frowned, and glanced at Vader. He looked... suspicious, vaguely, like he had at dinner the previous night, but clearly Vader had returned Luke home safe and sound, right...?

Vader said, "I believe your son is an empath."

Bail's tan skin went wan, for a moment. He glanced at Luke, automatically reaching to tug him into his side with a half-hug.

His throat worked for a moment before he said, "Yes...?" Because Vader clearly already knew, anyway.

"And he has told me he is the biological child of Padmé Amidala and her husband?"

Bail stiffened, glancing down at Luke. Luke smiled sheepishly.

Bail rolled his eyes. "Yes," he confirmed. "She was a good friend of mine. We're his godparents."

"I see." Vader was quiet for a moment. "May I come in? In this case, there may be a long story to this, and I don't have all the details. I'm hoping you may be able to fill in the gaps where I can't."

Bail glanced down at Luke. He looked worried—_beyond_ worried, in fact, as worried as Luke had ever seen him—but clearly he'd made the decision to trust Vader. He nodded, and he and Luke moved aside to let the man through.

Vader paused on the threshold, taking in Luke's home: the plants lined up on the windowsill, silly names written on the pots in Luke's tidy scrawl; the small stained glass window of a rising sun above the door, still cracked from that one time Luke and Biggs had been ten and eager and too excited about getting puppy-Artoo to look where they threw his ball; the burgundy carpet that rolled down the corridor, faded from a decade of feet, in the pattern his father had declared an eyesore but capitulated to buying...

Bail gave a quiet cough and Vader was jerked out of his reverie.

"Would the kitchen be a suitable place for this conversation?" he asked. "I can get us all some drinks—and get Luke," he squeezed him against his side, "something for his head."

"It won't help," Vader said automatically.

When they stared, he stilled slightly and elaborated, stiffly, "That is... I don't think his illness is one that medicine can fix."

"You'll explain later?" Bail asked dryly.

Vader nodded. "Yes."

"I see." Bail nodded gravely, and led them through. The day had turned bright, despite the cold, and the sunlight shone through the windows and skylight in the kitchen. Vader took a seat at the table.

"Would—" Bail paused. "Would this, by any chance, be a conversation my wife should be here for?"

"That would be best."

"Luke," Bail turned to him, "call Mum. Tell her to make her excuses and come home."

"She's not got anything important on today, has she? I don't wanna—"

"Nothing relatively important, no, and if this is what I think it is, then she would want to be here regardless of if the election itself was today."

What the _hell_ did that mean?

Luke didn't know. But he smiled a little and nodded. "Can I dump my schoolbag upstairs quickly?"

"Sure." Bail turned to Vader. "How do you like your tea?"

Luke made his way upstairs, hearing the murmur of careful voices fade behind him. The stairs creaked, as they always did, and he took them two at a time the way Biggs had taught him, even if _his_ legs were long enough to handle it without a small jump each time.

(He needed to stop thinking about Biggs.)

His phone buzzed on the way up, so he'd pulled it out to read whatever the news notification he'd received was, dismissed it—he didn't care much for celebrities' personal lives—and paused on the landing to type out and send Breha a quick text. No matter what his dad said, he wasn't gonna risk interrupting her with a call.

Only then did he look up, to push the door to his bedroom open. A poster for a sci-fi film, stuck to his door, fluttered in the sudden breeze.

Breeze...

Luke stared.

His phone thumped to the floor. It buzzed while there, an incoming text, but Luke ignored it.

It was a _tip_.

HIs gaze darted around the room: the bed his parents forced him to keep neat and made was slashed, feathers and sheets in an unholy tangle on the shredded mattress; the bookshelf had never been _that_ organised but at least the books had been _on the shelves_ instead of all over the floor; his stationery and all the trinkets he'd collected from what his mother had brought back in all her travels were scattered over the floor, some broken. Soil stained the carpet in one corner where his plant pot had fallen and shattered.

Luke's window was broken, cold wind seeping in to wind around him.

Someone had broken in.

Someone had broken in, and left a note waiting for him on his desk.

Written with _his_ favourite fountain pen, on _his_ stack of post-it notes.

He didn't know why his indignation over that was so strong.

To keep it from flying away in the winter winds, it was weighed down by the small penknife Luke kept in one of his trinket drawers.

He bent down to carefully pick up his phone again, thumb hovering and ready to punch in the number to call the police, but he didn't.

He called, "Dad?"

No reply. The quiet murmurs of conversation continued on the floor below.

"_Dad_!"

Footsteps.

"Luke?" Bail called from the bottom of the stairs. "What is it?"

"Can— can you come up here?" Luke asked, fighting to keep the tremble out of his voice. "Please?"

Maybe it was the tremble that did it, after all. His father's footsteps were light and racing on the stairs, followed by Vader's heavier, more purposeful ones. They were both by his side in an instant; Bail, eyes wide with horror, automatically wrapped his arms around Luke and pulled him into his chest (careful as always not to touch his bare skin), away from the door, while Vader was the only one of them with the guts to take several, tentative steps across the threshold and into the room.

His hand, Luke noted, was trembling as he picked up the note, letting the unsheathed penknife fall back to the table with a clatter.

His fist clenched around the note.

"What does it say?" Bail asked fearfully. Luke wondered if he already knew—he and Vader seemed to be communicating on a deeper level to what Luke could participate in, and it was clear that whatever was at the heart of it made them very, very afraid.

Vader swallowed. "'_To the son of Padmé Amidala,_'" he read, looking paler and sicker by the moment, "'_my greetings_.'"

"Whose greetings?" Luke asked. But that, he had to admit, he _did_ have an idea about.

Vader clenched the note in his fist and looked at Bail. "We very much need to speak, Organa."

Bail nodded, and tightened his grip on Luke. "My wife is on the way," he confirmed. "Let's go downstairs, and wait for her there."

* * *

It really wasn't long before the scrape of Breha's key sounded in the lock and Artoo was at the door with his wagging tail. Breha smiled at him, but when she looked at Luke her dark eyes were concerned.

"Luke?" she asked, coming forward with her arms outstretched. She hugged him tightly, then leaned back to inspect his face. Tugged her sleeve down to cover her hand, then pressed the back of that hand to his forehead, though he didn't know how much use the gesture would be without touching him. "You look ill."

"It's a long story," Luke said thickly.

Bail looked at Vader. "Yes," he said. "And it's time for us to hear it."

Vader bowed his head. "Of course."

The moment they were all seated in the kitchen, Bail foisting a hot chocolate on Luke with a weak smile and Luke grinning back, Vader began.

Breha laid a hand on Luke's arm when he said, "This... is about Luke's mother. And Palpatine. And why she died. Why both his parents were gone after that night of the fire, in fact. And a lot more."

Vader stared down at his cup of tea. He hadn't touched any of it; Luke wondered if he drank tea at all, and was trying to be polite. "You see, I am an empath, as Luke has no doubt speculated to you. And Vader is not the name I was born with."

Bail stiffened.

Luke glanced at him, confused and concerned, but his mum tightened her grip on his arm almost imperceptibly and asked, her voice tense, "Then what name were you born with?"

Vader's blue gaze was on Luke. It had not left Luke since he started talking.

He said, "Anakin Skywalker."


	3. Chapter 3

.

**3.**

Luke blinked in shock.

Vader was still staring at him, but Luke suddenly couldn't meet his gaze, glancing at his parents—his _adoptive_ parents—briefly. Breha was too practised a politician to show much more of her shock than a slight stillness of her expression, but Bail had clearly lost some of his finesse: he was openly gaping at Vader, eyes wide.

"Anakin?" he spluttered. Vader, glancing at him, nodded patiently. "But— but you—"

"Died. I know. But there was never any body." His gaze moved back to Luke. "I... escaped, terribly injured"—he gestured to his face—"and let people think that. With Padmé dead, with—" He choked. "And I _thought_ our child was dead with her... I couldn't face anyone back here. I fled.

"Well," he added, a little viciously. "_After_ accepting Palpatine's proposal that we meet at one of his warehouses to discuss what events had transpired. I don't know what he was expecting to happen there, but—"

"You torched the warehouse," Luke guessed. His stomach did an uneasy flip-flop at the thought, but... he couldn't blame him.

Palpatine had burned him, killed his wife, and he'd wanted revenge.

Vader nodded. "I torched the warehouse."

"Why didn't you go to the police, if you knew where Palpatine was going to be?" Bail asked.

Vader scoffed. "And let him bribe his way to freedom? Have one of his cronies pay the bail? No. He killed my wife, and—" He looked back at Luke briefly, throat working; his eyes glistened. "And my son."

Breha drummed her fingers on the table. "Legally, I'm not listening to any of this."

"As a politician, I don't expect you to. Deny any knowledge of it later." There was a faint, sad smile on Vader's scarred lips. Luke remembered that Mayor Padmé Amidala—_Luke's mother_—had been his wife. "But I promised you the truth and I'm giving it to you." His gaze turned softer when it passed over Luke again.

"How—" His voice cracked. "How did Luke survive?"

Breha grimaced in sympathy with the raw... _wonder_, and devastation, in his voice. Bail said, "Padmé... took a— a while to die." He winced as Vader flinched. "Either the gunman wasn't very good, or missed, or... I don't know. But she didn't die from her wounds until we were in the hospital, at which point she'd already managed to get out the request that they do absolutely anything to save her baby. And... well..."

Breha laid a hand on Bail's shoulder. "You and Padmé had already named us godparents," she said gently. "We thought Luke was an orphan. Of course we took him in." She reached over with her free hand to ruffle Luke's hair; it wasn't until Luke tried to smile at her that he realised his cheeks were soaked in salty tears.

"W— why..." Luke took a deep breath, desperately swallowing to unclog his throat. He had so much to ask, so much he needed to _know_... "What happened today? Why is..." He stripped off one of his gloves and waved his bare hand around. "Why is _this_..."

Vader caught his hand gently in his bare one; Luke felt a brief rush of _love_, pure and simple, suffuse him at the contact. It shut off gently after a moment as Vader put those... _shields_ back up, but Luke didn't stop blushing for a while.

"I... was born with this gift," he began haltingly. "My mother had it as well, and since she'd been separated from her parents she knew no one else with this power, no one to help her. By the time I was born she'd managed to figure out how to control it, somewhat, but... she had a difficult time of it."

He choked up, a little; a gram of intense regret seeped through when his shields slipped. "I _had_ sworn that no child of mine would have to deal with what she dealt with."

Luke squeezed his hand gently. He wondered if there was any point to the gesture, considering Vader would be able to feel every millimetre of his turbulent emotions as they roiled through him, but tried anyway.

Vader continued, "She taught me all the skills she knew—mainly how to deal with it, how to use it in domestic, everyday circumstances. Like comforting children." He squeezed Luke's hand back and Luke laughed a little.

Vader smiled. It was the smallest quirk of the lips, but it warmed Luke nonetheless, and _sensing_ that made Vader smile even wider.

Then his smile fell. "I met Palpatine when I was nine."

Bail gave a sharp intake of breath and Breha shushed him.

"He... was always very kind to my mother. I'd bumped into him on the street—in hindsight I think he sensed me before I did, the way he never needed physical contact to sense or control people, and went out of his way to interact with me. I was young and evidently lost—we'd only just moved to Anchorhead—and I was so naive and _trusting_ that when he asked me if he could walk me home, to make sure I was safe, I let him.

"He endeared himself to my mum immediately. He was lovely, the image of a gentleman, and he kept in contact with us afterwards. Whenever we had trouble with the bills—we _always_ had trouble with the bills..." He blinked and shook his head. "We didn't know it was blood money. Even when I was sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, I just thought he was a good guy. I just thought he owned a business, or several, or... I don't know. But he's the only reason I could afford to go to university—the local one, but good enough—because he made sure my mum was looked after when I was too busy to, supported when I didn't have time for a job... And that was where I met Padmé."

He was smiling, Luke realised. Smiling and crying.

"But that's not important right now. It was while I was at uni that he admitted that he had this power too. That _he_ could sense other people's emotions, their thoughts and feelings, and that he could not only _ignore _it, but _control _it. And well.

"He said he'd teach me all he knew."

"And he didn't?" Luke guessed.

Vader blew out a breath through his teeth. "No. Though not for lack of trying. I don't know what I was to him, a successor or a protégé or an investment. Probably an investment—an asset. I know that once I was finished with uni, he offered me a job with one of his companies.

"I accepted. It was a great opportunity. I'd already married Padmé, she was starting her run for mayor... and maybe that was why he seemed doubly interested in me, then. My wife would be the mayor in a few months—it was obvious she would win, even then—and having _her_ in his pocket as well would have greatly helped his organisation."

He took a deep breath. "But the main reason I joined was that it was well-paid, with very convenient hours, and shortly after the election campaign was over we realised we had a baby on the way."

Luke wasn't sure if he was imagining the way his hand tightened on his, ever so slightly.

"I wasn't even the one who told Palpatine. It was my mum, beyond excited to become a grandma. The moment I walked into work, he congratulated me on it.

"He didn't threaten Luke as a means of coercing me to join the Imperials until later."

"But he did?" Breha asked.

"He did. I'd say no, over and over and over again, but... I hadn't reported him to the police yet, for several reasons. I knew that it would wreck Padmé's career if it came out that I hadn't, could potentially wreck my baby's life... but I didn't. It was _Palpatine_. My mother's best friend, the closest thing I had to an uncle." Vader tilted his head slightly and grimaced. "Also he was my boss, and I needed that job."

"And—" Luke swallowed. "And he got impatient, I guess?"

"And he got impatient," Vader confirmed. "It... wasn't just because of me, I shouldn't be arrogant. Padmé was a brilliant mayor"—when Luke glanced at his parents, they were nodding wistfully—"and she was doing extremely well at stamping out organised crime in the town. When I finally admitted to her what he'd said to me, she started quietly compiling evidence against him."

"She sent us a copy," Bail said. "So we knew who to accuse, when all was said and done. Palpatine was dead, but authorities still searched his home, his companies, and he was agreed to be guilty. The newspapers had a field day."

_Palpatine was dead._ Luke saw Vader mouth the words and grimace.

"It was too much. I— I think Palpatine's plan was to kill Padmé and perhaps steal her child, to raise to be the protégé I'd refused to be, but obviously the gunman made a mistake, I'd wandered off and got caught in the fire he'd set as a distraction, you two," he nodded at Bail and Breha, "were on site to react much faster than he'd expected... I don't know.

"But when I escaped the fire and heard that Padmé had died...

"I stayed just long enough to get my mum out of the town and try to kill Palpatine myself. Then I fled, and I never wanted to return."

"Then why did you?" Luke asked.

At exactly the same time Breha asked with narrowed eyes, "What do you mean _try_?"

Vader glanced at her and said to Luke, "The bookshop. Padmé loved that bookshop—exactly the way it was. With Jobal selling it, I didn't want to think about the idea of its new owner changing it into something unrecognisable."

"Anakin," Bail said. "What do you mean _try_?"

Vader bit his lip. "I'd been in Anchorhead for a week when Palpatine visited me. Turns out he'd survived, as I had, and just left the town for about the same time I had, as well."

Breha sucked in a breath, half-closing her eyes. She looked suddenly _overwhelmingly_ exhausted. "And what did he want?"

"Same as before. My services to help him terrorise more innocent people. But he had no leverage, this time." He closed his eyes. "Until he came by the shop and saw Luke."

"Did he know who I was immediately?"

"After he shook your hand, almost certainly. And this morning, at the museum... he got you there to make a point." He swallowed. "And he made it."

"Hold on." Bail held up a hand. "Luke, what happened at the _museum_ this morning?"

Luke grimaced, and explained.

"So," he said into the silence one he was finished. "What now?"

"I suppose," Bail said grimly, "with all of _that_ cleared up, it explains the break in to Luke's room."

The adults nodded grimly; Luke swallowed.

"Palpatine's clearly willing to use you as leverage," Vader said quietly—not quite _apologetically_, but close enough. "And we know that he is not above murder when it suits him. You nearly died once; I'm not going to let it happen again."

"Then what now?" Luke reiterated, ignoring the sudden intensity to Vader's voice, the tension in every line of his body.

He was still holding his hand.

Bail frowned. "Then we'll keep him safe—because I'm fairly sure Palpatine _will_ send another after him." There was that dark intensity to his voice as well, and when Luke looked at his mother she had it too.

They'd been through this before, he realised.

"Can we get him out of town?" Vader asked. "My mother got out and Palpatine never managed to go after her—I don't think his influence extends far beyond here."

"That was then. He left for years and only recently returned—are we to assume he's been idle? He's probably got connections elsewhere."

"Then we send Luke to the middle of nowhere," Breha cut in sharply. Her voice held the sort of unquestioned authority that got her through... well, every part of her job. Bail and Vader both instantly deferred to it, whether or not they were both incredibly intelligent and capable men in their own right.

Breha smiled at Luke and the twinkle was back in her eye. "Jobal moved down the coast recently—we can send Luke down to Varykino and he can lie low there for a while. Until we can sort this situation with Palpatine out." She reached out to tuck a lock of unruly blond hair behind Luke's ear; he smiled faintly at the rush of affection the brief contact sent him.

He smiled, but grimaced when he pointed out, "That... could take years. I can't miss that much school." Nor did he want to leave his parents (all three of them!) at _all_, but there was no way they were going to take that as a reason not to.

"Biggs can send you the homework."

He flushed at the mention of him. "Biggs isn't in all my classes."

"You have _other friends_, Luke."

Luke laughed a little and met Vader's eye. "I'll miss engineering club."

Vader drawled, "A great loss."

Luke felt his father's joy bloom across their entwined hands at the sound of his laugh.

"Besides, the winter holidays start in only a week," he pestered further. "Please? Just one more—"

"I'll contact Jobal and Sola," Bail announced. "Varykino is absolutely lovely this time of year. Remote." He winked. "Icy, steep roads and a lot of hills surrounding it."

"And until then you're not leaving this house," Vader added.

"What—!"

"It's for your own safety, Luke."

"I _know_, Dad, but—"

"It's also for my peace of mind," Vader interrupted. "Please. Get out of this town, and look after yourself."

The sharp melancholy, quashed moments after transmission, left Luke swallowing awkwardly.

"Alright, Father," he said, the oddly formal title—not one that fit Bail, but one that fit Vader, somehow—surprisingly smooth on his tongue. "I'll go."

Vader had frozen at the address. Breha was hiding her (slightly sad) smile behind her hand. But Bail did push, "_And_ you'll stay in the house until then, no matter how restless you get? Stay _safe_?"

Luke huffed. "I promise. But," he added. "Sending me away is all well and good, but how long will it be?"

The adults exchanged a glance. Great. It had been bad enough when just Bail and Breha did it, now Vader had to weigh in as well.

"Until Palpatine is caught," Breha said, slowly but simply. "We have a mountain of evidence left over from his previous crimes—if we can cooperate with the police, report him, and get him caught... He'll never see the light of day again."

"Great," Luke shot back, "but how is he getting _caught_?"

Bail rose to his feet. "That's none of your concern. You still look ill—you should go and have a nap, see if you can sleep the effects of Palpatine's mind-messing off—"

"I'm _not_ going to bed so that you can talk adult stuff about me behind my back." He _did _feel incredibly childish when he folded his arms, but he was making a point with it, dammit! "I'm not a baby."

"No, you're a sixteen year old who will be bored to death by all the legal practice and bureaucracy we're about to discuss, go to bed."

Luke glared at Bail. "It's about _me_ as well," he insisted. "I deserve to know what's going on."

The adults exchanged another look.

Great.

"He... does have a point," Vader admitted, looking lost in his memories again. Bail sighed.

"But," Vader added hurriedly, glancing between Bail and Breha, "if you think he's too young..."

"He's too young," Breha said flatly.

"Hey!"

"We'll fill you in when you wake up," Bail cajoled. "But you _will_ be bored. Please, go and sleep. You can even let Artoo sleep on the bed with you if you want, if you're scared, but..."

Luke glanced at the little dog, curled up in his bed in the corner.

"Alright," he said. "You'd _better_ fill me in."

"We will."

He got up—slowly, because he _was_ still feeling dizzy and light-headed, then more quickly. He teetered for a moment before he found his balance, glanced around at the adults, then left the kitchen.

Halfway up the stairs he paused, straining to see if he could hear what they were saying—

"Go to bed, Luke."

He went to bed.

* * *

He woke later that afternoon when Vader came in to check on him, painfully, painfully gently.

The door creaked open. Luke cracked his eyes open with it to see Vader hesitate on the threshold before he entered, his eyes moving across the room, the mess it had still been in when Luke fell asleep. Bail had found a slab of wood to cover Luke's window with until they could get it fixed, so it was fairly dark.

The damage wasn't so bad in the dark.

Luke slept surprisingly heavily, so in the interim someone had clearly swept up all the broken glass in the room and placed everything into small piles so no one would trip. While Vader stood there, his gaze picked apart the individual items: a cuddled-to-death toy in one pile; an old toy car and plane in another; a small Huttese-Basic dictionary; lip salves; hair brushes. His poor potted plant sat off to the side, taped together for dear life.

Vader's gaze finally moved to Luke then and he stilled, the slightest flicker of shock when he met Luke's eye. Then he huffed slowly and moved over, dragging the bean bag over to next to his bed and lowering himself onto it. He smiled down at Luke, that same melancholy edge to it that he'd had since... well, since the museum.

He said, "You should still be sleeping, little one." He reached out to brush some of Luke's tousled hair out of his face; when he made to pull his hand back, Luke caught it in his and entwined their fingers. His father was wearing leather gloves, he realised, a little sadly... then Vader picked up on his expression and gently tugged them off, lacing their fingers back together. Luke got a little thrill at the... _tenderness_... he felt, like a single ripple in the calm, calm moment. "The experience Palpatine put your mind through will not have passed yet."

"If I sleep now I won't sleep tonight," he pointed out, though he had to admit that he _did_ still feel a little dizzy. "And in the meantime," he wheedled, "you can teach me how to— how to _shield_. Right?" He smiled sweetly.

Vader huffed again. "You are lying horizontal in your bed."

"I can get up." Luke made to, then there was a leather-clad hand, the one Luke's wasn't holding, pushing him back down.

"No, don't do that. Rest, even if you don't sleep." His voice was quiet.

"Alright, Father," Luke said. He smiled at the spike of shock—and _joy_—he sensed at that word. "But... please. Teach me something? Or tell me a story! I wanna understand more about... about being an empath."

It was the _Father_ that did it, Luke was pretty sure. Vader had started smiling at that and had not stopped, the whole time he was gazing at Luke.

"Very well," he said. "Close your eyes."

Luke dutifully closes his eyes.

Vader's hand slipped from his—he gave a little cry of protest but Vader hushed him, and laid two fingers against Luke's brow.

"With you and relaxed and trusting as you are now," Vader said humorously, "I could press these two fingers here, give you a nudge and send you immediately to sleep."

Luke wrinkled his nose in disapproval and made to swat the hand away.

Vader laughed. "I _won't_, young one. But I could do that because the mind is, as one would expect, primarily centred in the head. When you feel mental attacks, you feel them in the head, and that is therefore the target you visualise."

"I'm not going to _attack_ anyone," Luke grumbled.

"Really?" Vader teased. "No one who you'd _just_ like to know what they were thinking, maybe thinking of you, in that instance?"

Luke, despite himself, thought about what had happened outside the museum. He flushed bright red.

"_Oh_."

"We are not having this conversation."

"Who is she?"

"Did you hear what I just said?"

"I heard you. Who is _he_, then?"

"Not telling."

"Have you told anyone else?"

"Is it that boy you left your bag with when you went into the museum?"

"Biggs?" Luke wrinkled his nose and tried to be convincing. His voice cracked; he wasn't so sure it worked. "No..."

"Are you _sure_—"

"_It's no one_. And I'm not going to try and read their mind, anyway! It's a horrible breach of privacy, I just want to know how to _avoid_ doing it."

Vader calmed down. "You are right, of course. And we will discuss this further"—he lowered his fingers from Luke's brow to tap on the back of his hand; the _curiosity_, about this, about _him_, that overloaded his nerves even at the brief contact surprised him—"later. But for now..."

He smiled. "Close your eyes again."

Luke closed them—slower this time, with a suspicious peep at his father before shutting them fully. "Alright."

"Envision a wall."

Luke's brow furrowed. "A wall?"

"Or a mountain. Imagine the hills around Anchorhead, slippery in dew and icy in winter, impossible to pass. For the wall, imagine that any emotions or confusion or tricks, anything someone may try to insert into your little fortress, are stopped short by the thick wall surrounding it. And for the hills..."

"Every time the attacks come," Luke breathed, eye scrunched tight, "they have to wade through knee deep mud. They keep sliding back to the bottom."

"Exactly. Here." Vader leaned forward unconsciously; Luke heard his weight shift on the beanbag. "I'm going to try to slide in, and you have to shove me down the hill, okay?"

"What if you—"

"Just shove me down the hill. Your fortress is on the top of the hill. You can see for miles around—"

"And miles out to sea."

"And miles out to sea," Vader amended. "It's an excellent, well-stocked fort full of very important things you want to keep secret. And it's also your home, and you want to keep it safe. I'm an invading army," he _pushed_, "so _send me to the bottom of the hill_."

There it was, the warm yet electrifying touch against his mind and yeah, Luke really wanted to let it in, he hadn't realised that that connection had been missing his whole life, but now it was burrowing deep into his memories and _no_—

He shoved it down the hill.

"You don't get to see that memory," he bit out.

"Why?" Vader smirked. "Was it your crush?" He tried again—

And Luke shoved him down the hill again.

He tumbled a little bit. He imagined that a deep, muddy moat encircled the hill and watched as the invading touch landed smack dab in the middle of it.

"You are _vindictive_," Vader said. He sounded so proud.

"Okay, so that's how you keep other empaths out," Luke said. "How— how do I..."

Vader folded his hands in his.

"Keep from being overwhelmed?" he asked softly. Luke nodded. "The same way. Your mind is a fortress—a post that is central to this surrounding area, to the people in your life. Be selective about who and what produce you allow inside."

He unfurled his hands, so that Luke's limp one lay there like a bloom on his palm.

"Your hills are doing their jobs. I can't sense you. Can you sense me?"

Luke shook his head.

"I'm not holding back." His thumb swept over Luke's knuckles, and Luke revelled in the _nothingness_ he sensed. "That's all you."

He hesitated, then when Luke instinctively leaned into him, he smiled and kissed his head. He froze when Luke wrapped his arms around his torso.

"Thank you, Father," he whispered.

He ignored the hot tears he could feel wetting his hair. He chose to bask in the blissful happiness he sensed from his father instead.

He studiously ignored the cold, dark _fear_ growing behind it, as well.

* * *

Luke kept his promise. He stayed in the house for the week. No one came after him.

Jobal replied almost immediately with the news that they would love to have him for the winter holidays; all that was left to Luke was to wait to get out of Anchorhead, then he'd be fine. Out of danger. His three parents could stop fussing.

It was a bright day, in which frost crystallised breath in midair and skidded underfoot on the pavement. Luke, being cooped up indoors, had missed the weather's rapid and belated plunge towards true winter, but he felt a tickle of it when he opened the back door four days after the museum, one day before he was due to visit his grandmother, and a cold wind swept around the kitchen. He shivered.

"Go on then." Artoo had frozen in the door, nose poised on the wind, and Luke gave him a little nudge with his slipper-clad foot. "You're the one who wanted to go out so much, don't tell me you've chickened out of telling the neighbour's cat what's what again—"

Artoo took off into the garden, barking madly.

Luke raised his eyebrows, but it wasn't like that was _unusual_. He shut the door—he needed to find another blanket now, and sit in front of the computer doing his homework like a chicken wrap with too much wrap and not enough chicken—and headed to nick one out of his parents' room.

He came back down into the kitchen a short while later, no longer feeling so chilly, when he realised he'd left Artoo outside for ten minutes. The poor dog was probably shouting at the door to be let back in by now.

He headed for the back and frowned.

Artoo wasn't there.

Well, Luke wasn't hanging around downstairs any longer, so Artoo could come in now or not at all.

"Artoo?" he called, opening the door again and grimacing at the cold rush of wind that swept in. So much for the extra blanket. "Artoo, c'mon!"

He strained his eyes to peer out into the snarling undergrowth—the garden still showed the results of his dad's brief and unsuccessful interest in gardening—but saw nothing, no rustle of undergrowth or flash of white and grey to indicate where Artoo was.

Very hesitantly, dumping his blanket on a stool and watching where he put his slippers, he stepped outside. "Artoo?" he called again.

Still no sign of him.

He swore to himself. His dad had _just_ gone out shopping, and if Artoo had got hurt—if he'd bitten off more than he could chew with some of the neighbours' cats, _again_—he didn't really want to wait until Bail got home to get him.

Luke glanced inside, and—very, very slowly—closed the door behind him, making sure to leave it unlocked.

The path was a winding one, through a lot of nice plant patches that would have looked lovely in May, but just looked a bit sad in winter, and he'd completed an entire loop of the garden before he concluded that no, in fact, Artoo was not in here.

And at the back of the garden, the back gate was ajar.

Luke sighed. Hiked up his trouser legs to brush past an overeager shrub, then yanked at the gate. Old, old wood, and taller than he was, it didn't go quietly, but it went. The wooden planks scraped against the brick paving on the ground.

He poked his head out. "Artoo?"

Nothing.

He sighed.

Grimaced.

Glanced down, just to check no benevolent neighbours' pets had left him a gift in the alley, then stepped out and let the gate slam shut behind him as well.

"Artoo?" he called one last time, without really any hope. He'd probably rocketed off, then Luke would have to tell Bail when he got back, and _he_ could go look for him and maybe Luke could wheedle his way into accompanying him and being actually officially allowed out of the house—

He peeked around the corner of the alley, to the path that led straight back to the street, and laughed.

Artoo barked at him.

"You silly dog..." he murmured affectionately, crouched down to unhook his collar from the nail hammered into the neighbour's garden fence. Artoo whined, head-butting him, then ran straight back into the garden with his tail between his legs.

The moment he was inside, his bravado returned and he barked his head off.

Luke rolled his eyes. "What is it _now_?"

Artoo didn't stop barking.

Luke ignored him, jogging up to the back door and trying the handle, smiling when he stepped back inside into the warm and the dry. He kicked off his slippers—they'd dry off in a second, but until then they were uncomfortably damp—and, leaving the door open so Artoo could come back in whenever he so felt like it, he heading for the stairs.

The door slammed shut behind him.

He sighed. There had barely been a wind—at least, judging by the cold it brought in—so why had it—

He turned and screamed.

A large man was standing in front of the door, gun out and pointed at him.

He screamed again.

Screamed, and stumbled back—right into another man, who wrapped strong arms around him before he even managed to shout for help.

He struggled, _desperately_, his precious blanket twisting around his legs and pooling on the floor and just when he gasped for air to scream _again_—

—something was pressed against his nose and mouth, something that smelt— that smelt—

He blacked out.


	4. Chapter 4

**It's nearly New Year for me, so I'm posting the end of this short fic here and once again wishing everyone happy holidays, and all the best that 2020 can bring!**

* * *

**4.**

He was lying in bed, he thought. No: a sofa. He was lying on a sofa, warm and comfortable, but his head felt like it had been smacked with a dictionary.

"Ah, young Skywalker. Or young Organa, if you prefer. So glad to see you finally awake."

How? How did he know that? He wasn't awake, he was uncomfortably close to consciousness and now he'd heard _that_ charming voice he just wanted to fall back into that blissful—

"I am glad you think my voice is charming, young man, but I do believe it's rude to ignore your host that way."

Host...?

"Yes. What else would I be?"

The pieces fell together in a horrifying picture, and Luke dragged himself upright, peeled his eyelids up, and openly cringed at the sight of the face in front of him.

Palpatine chuckled. "Now, my boy, you know it's rude to focus on scars like that as well. Your own father has them much, much worse than I do."

Luke didn't deign to respond. He just glanced around the room, a _very familiar backroom_, with a small office for finances in the corner but mainly a ratty old sofa in the middle where he was lying now, and amidst the screaming thought of how _surreal_ it was to see the twisted villain from all his childhood stories sitting quietly on the chair his grandmother used to read to him in, all he could think was: "You took me to... the _bookshop_?"

"Of course. Isn't it fitting that you die where your mother and her family spent so much of their lives?"

Wait.

_Die?_

Luke made a split second decision to—

There was a gun pointed at him before he'd even made to open his mouth.

It looked wrong, the look of Palpatine's hand wrapped around the grip. Luke's throat bobbed.

"If you even think about screaming, boy," he said mildly. "I think it's very clear what I'll do."

Luke shook his head. "Stop reading my mind."

"Oh, my apologies. I suppose that isn't polite. But it's not something I can stop, you know; once one's power grows, as yours inevitably would, it will become as natural as breathing to instantly know where you stand in other people's worlds, and to restrain oneself would be akin to—"

Luke followed his father's advice.

He watched the boundaries of his mind grow slick and impassable with a hard stone of satisfaction deep in his gut; he watched Palpatine's sudden snarl with the same.

But the snarl was gone in a moment, and Palpatine just leaned forward to take one of Luke's hands, sitting limply on his knee. Cold spread up his fingers like gnawing frostbite.

"Akin to wearing gloves constantly," Palpatine said with pity, as Luke desperately tried to shove that _coldness_ out. "Even when you're so warm you're..." He bared his teeth in a grin. "...practically on fire."

Luke shook off the hand and, with the contact severed, that horrible, horrible feeling vanished. "What do you want with me?" he asked weakly.

"A great many things, child—and I think you know exactly what they might be—but first I'd like to investigate this gift of yours that has apparently been left to decay so terribly," Palpatine's lips twisted, "if you cannot totally shut _this_ out," he brushed his fingers lightly over the back of Luke's hand; Luke shuddered, "at your age."

"My father is teaching me," Luke shot back mutinously.

"I thought you said your father was dead? The gifted father, that was."

Luke froze. Had he not...?

"Oh, I knew." Palpatine had got his confusion from his face, not his mind; his defences were still strong. Luke was pretty sure. "But I wasn't aware that you did. You know, I've been keeping an eye on you since I returned to Anchorhead"—since the shop, Luke was pretty sure that actually meant—"so I know one thing was sure: Vader has not visited you in days. And weren't you supposed to be heading along the coast soon?"

Luke shivered. Palpatine smiled.

"If you're leaving, and he's so intent on teaching you, why hasn't he started already?"

It... was true.

Vader hadn't returned after that one, intimate conversation they'd had.

But. Still.

"I trust him," Luke said simply. "I trust he has his reasons. But I imagine that's an utterly alien concept to you."

Palpatine stared.

Then he threw back his head and laughed.

"You're funny, child," he said. "But utterly misguided."

All he had was— "You're the misguided one." He cringed the moment he said it.

"So eloquent for a politician's son," Palpatine mocked. "But I'll graciously ignore your lack of finesse and gratitude, and just deliver you a brief lesson before you die, right here.

"Let's see how good your defences are."

Luke screamed.

* * *

He— he was far away from here, in a body that ached with a face that twinged with every twitch of the jaw, every worried frown that creased his brow. Palpatine's coldness wasn't as noticeable here, because _everything_ was cold, and lonely, and dark—

—except there was a light of warmth and love and hope in the corner, and it was screaming.

It had been silent for hours now, painfully silent once Bail had contacted him with the terrible news, and now terror knotted his chest at that silence cracked and words bloomed out of it—

_You know who this is, Anakin._

He—Luke, Vader?—offered no response through that bond, unwilling to hurt him—Vader, Luke?—any more than this, but fear needed no voice.

_Would you like to come and save him? _

_You couldn't save his mother, but perhaps you can save him._

_You'd better come quick, Anakin. You know what will happen otherwise. And you know exactly where I am._

Luke only knew that his head hurt, and now that other mind was gently pushing him back into his own with the quietest whisper...

_Shove us down the hill_.

...that caused an avalanche.

Palpatine was thrown out of Luke's mind like a slingshot recoil, so hard it actually took him several moments to recover. Not that Luke could take advantage of that—he himself needed far longer—but it was gratifying to see.

"I said," Luke gasped, "_get out of my head_."

"So your father taught you _something_," he sneered. "But everything your father knows comes from me anyway, and don't you know what the best teacher is?"

Luke narrowed his eyes. "What?"

Palpatine smiled. "Practise.

"And practise comes hand in hand with pain."

He trailed a finger down Luke's jaw.

"And I intend to hurt you as much as I possibly can, for as long as your father is here to watch."

And then he shoved at Luke's shields again.

* * *

And again.

And again.

"Look how much you're already improving!" he said cheerily.

"Fuck you," Luke said, and then it came again.

His hills remained standing, the passes between them worn smoother and smoother by Palpatine's continuous assault and continuous slides. He... _was_ getting better at these defences.

When Palpatine failed to get purchase for the fifth time in a row, and Luke was able to patch up the way in before he could exploit it, he just narrowed his eyes.

Then he lunged forward to wrap his arms around Luke's throat.

The skin-on-skin contact stunned him momentarily and his defences waned with his vision; he gasped for air, desperately trying to get _something_ into his dizzied mind and Palpatine slipped in again, like a scalding finger trailing along inside his head—

He shoved him out again, but it _burned_ and _hurt_.

He shoved him out, shoved the effects of the contact out. For goodness' sake, his father had _taught_ him how to handle this, he should _know_ how to handle this—

But he—

He was so scared.

Palpatine— Palpatine had already... he didn't _know_, but he'd done _something_ and there was a fire ravaging his mind because of it.

"What—" he panted, gasping for air again—not because there was still a clammy grip on his throat, but because that fire in his mind was only picking up heat, and it was spreading, under his skin, racing down his arms... "What... is that—"

"A memory," Palpatine said. He revelled in the words. "When your father lit up the warehouse I was in, can you imagine the agony that caused me? Can you imagine how brightly my vengeance burned when I crawled out with flesh that boiled on my bones? I have waited _sixteen years _for this.

"Now, your father already felt that pain when the town hall burned; he was already indifferent to it, and I imagine he would run through that inferno again and again if it meant he actually managed to reach his precious wife in time.

"But you..." He leaned it. "When you burn, he will feel every inch of your suffering, as well as his own. He will lose everything again—and the Organas, for the hindrance their political manoeuvring has been to my operations, and the Naberries, for their role in what your dear departed mother did to me, all those years ago."

He stood up, and Luke automatically slumped back in shock, mind whirling as he processed everything...

...then the processing period was up, and his mind latched onto the important thing: _Palpatine was going to kill him_.

He threw himself to his feet, darting for the door; if he could just get to the front of the shop—

A bullet punched through his calf and he went down in a spray of blood, choking on his own tongue. His head hit the doorframe, hard; he saw bright starbursts.

"Please don't run," Palpatine said, still brandishing the gun. "It would make all of this so much more complicated."

His— his limbs were starting to seize up, his mind still shrieking in that vortex of heat Palpatine had infected it with, his breathing ragged—

He scrambled to his feet again and there was another shot, in the same place. He screamed.

Blood stained Jobal's beautiful jewel-blue carpet.

Palpatine turned away from the boy he'd left in a crimson pool on the floor, towards one of the boxes of books to be organised, priced and displayed out the front. He pulled one out and flicked through it, snorting.

It was a language dictionary of some sort, though Luke's vision was too blurry for him to make out the words. It looked like a Huttese script, but it could have been Shyriiwook, Ryl, Rodian...

Palpatine snorted. "Teenagers write such crude things, don't they? Especially in books they don't own.

"But despite that, I must say: I've always liked books. Every type of book."

He drew a lighter from deep within his sleeve.

Luke made a quiet noise of horror.

"They all burn so well."

Within moments it had caught, pages curling and crumbling into blackened husks. Palpatine tossed it at the bookshelf and watched the whole thing blaze.

"Are—" Luke panted. "Are you _insane_?"

Yes.

Yes he was.

"Now that's just rude," Palpatine tutted.

"_So is leaving someone trapped in a burning bookshop_."

"Oh, I haven't left you." Palpatine swept right up to him, seemingly unconcerned with the fact that his long, robe-like coat was trailing embers. "Not yet."

_Not yet_.

Palpatine was going to lock him in and leave him to burn, letting his father watch and sense it. But he wasn't going to be in here when that happened.

He had every intention of seeing the aftermath.

If he could help it, that was.

Luke eyed the door, saw Palpatine watch him eyeing the door... then moved.

Another shot rang out, but _in the wrong direction_. Luke feinted left, then dived straight at Palpatine while his arm was still out. He wrenched it back, as hard as he could; he wasn't sure what the crack he heard was but Palpatine _howled_. He shoved, and shoved, but he couldn't push back.

He was an old, injured man, after all.

Luke... temporarily went insane.

He reached down, _into_ that box of burning books, and grabbed the dictionary. His head was spinning, the billowing smoke scratching his lungs; he coughed, hard, and then his fingers latched around that book.

It was the feeling he got from it that snapped him back to reality.

Usually he got excitement from adventure books, adoration from romance novels, curiosity from mysteries... and from the dictionary he got nothing but a faint stress that barely made a ripple in what was already a pretty stressful situation and, most importantly, _boredom_.

That boredom calmed him enough, for one moment, to ignore the adrenaline thundering through his veins and realise that holding onto something that was on fire _hurt_.

He chucked it at Palpatine. It smacked him around the head, hard; he howled again.

His good arm, the arm not being clutched to his chest while his face contorted in a rictus of pain, scrabbled for the gun. Luke kicked it away—under the cabinet.

Where were Palpatine's henchmen? Why was he alone?

Arrogance? Self-preservation?

He didn't know. This was all the better for him.

The hem of his trousers had caught fire. Much of the carpet had caught fire, in fact.

_Stop, drop and roll_, Luke thought, a little hysterically.

That... would be a supremely bad idea.

So he just tried to pinch it out and stumbled out of the room, slamming the door behind him—there was no glaring side that read_ Fire Door; Keep Shut_ on the door like there so often were at school, but he understood the principle—and staggered forward. Into the front room, dark with the December evening.

He _did_ roll then, just to get rid of the heat eating at his trouser leg and adding to the scorching pain that flared every time he stepped on the leg that'd been shot. But then he crawled, staggered, forwards, trailing blood, until he reached the entrance, the door with the shiny (and now a little sooty) bell above it, and he reached for the handle—

It was locked.

He jiggled it. Again and again and again and _screamed_ his frustration, but _it was locked_.

He stared at the windows. They were _always_ locked, and he _knew_ Jobal had always, to his eternal bafflement, invested in ridiculously tough windows—though he thought he knew exactly _who_ she'd been defending against now, _not that it had ever done any good_—but he threw himself at them anyway.

His shoulder wrenched the wrong way, and that hurt too, but he just heard a _thunk_.

No shatter.

Not even a _splinter_—

He tried again. Nothing.

He tried again. Nothing.

—a frantic mind touched his, _Luke, where are you, what_—

Laughter.

A wheezing cackling behind him.

He spun on his good foot to see that Palpatine had dragged himself upright and was grinning at him, his bad arm hanging limp at his side.

"There's no escape, young Skywalker," he said.

"For you either," Luke shot back. He didn't seem to hear him.

He was _insane_.

He _must_ have had a plan.

He'd had every intention of leaving, Luke still locked in, so—

He had to have been able to _get them both in here_, even long in the evening after Vader would have locked up, so—

That meant—

"Where's the key!?"

A spark, crackle; the wooden door caught fire, left wide open behind Palpatine, and Luke watched with horrified eyes as it jumped from bookcase to bookcase like they were a trail lit in oil.

Palpatine's laughter was getting hoarser; even Luke, with his young lungs, was starting to feel the strain. Smoke choked the room.

"Where—" he croaked, loudly, although it shredded his poor throat. "_Where's the key!?_"

He could sense that other, benevolent touch on his mind again, frantic, looking for him; people called his name.

He turned towards the windows.

His parents were across the street, bailing out of a car; Breha was on the phone, lips moving faster than he'd ever seen her speak before, serene speechmaker that she was. Bail's tan face had drained of colour; he made to sprint across the street without even looking before he crossed, and Vader—

Vader was right at the window, staring at Luke in sheer, unparalleled _horror_.

He was desperately rooting through his pockets, his bag. Then he gave up and shouted, his panicked sense expanding to cradle Luke's like a father cradled his newborn sixteen years too late, and Luke's head spun even more.

_Not again_.

It wasn't his thought, but it beat against his mind like a wave against the shore, like the winds against the hills.

_Not again_.

No. Not again.

He couldn't let Palpatine hurt his father like this again.

He couldn't let him have his revenge.

So Luke's gaze turned, to squarely rest on Palpatine.

His father had no key.

Palpatine must have had one, in order to get in.

The logic was obvious and natural: _Palpatine had his father's key_.

He reflexively took another step back, towards the door, eyeing the flames. His father's voice beat against his mind—

—_Luke, no, what are you _doing_—_

—and he shoved it down the hill as he _ran_.

Flames caught onto him, searing light and heat and _pain_, exploding across his sense and an answering, _remembered_ pain from his father than only exacerbated it—

But then he had reached Palpatine and the man was thrown to the floor.

"Where's the key." He almost didn't recognise his own voice, cold and implacable as it was. It was the only cold thing about this situation and he clung to it as he stared Palpatine down, the flames reflecting in both their eyes, turning the blue to a shining gold.

Palpatine rasped a laugh and croaked, "There... is no escape... _boy_."

Luke crouched down in front of him, feeling the fire near this nook behind the counter they'd barricaded themselves in, closer and closer—

He seized the front of his clothes and screamed, loud enough that it shredded it smoke-ravaged throat, "_Where is it!?_"

Palpatine only laughed again, but that laugh was petering out further now, replaced with coughs. Luke could feel his own voice deteriorating, failing; he just shook his head and let go of him, stumbling back.

He was going to die in here.

_Luke—_

He was going to _die_ in here.

_—the fire brigade are on their way, son, you have to—_

Every other thought drowned amidst that flooding realisation, and the instinctive kick of the thought, like the instinctive kick of lungs to draw air after too long underwater, that suddenly defined his entire being:

_He did not want to die here_.

But he needed the key to avoid death. Only Palpatine knew where it was. Luke could search him, but it would take too long; he could question him, but he clearly _wouldn't talk_; how else could he possibly find that precious little key?

He couldn't exactly take the information from him by force...

...except he could.

Luke stared at his hands for a moment, knowing that he was wasting precious seconds but _needing_ the time to calm, to decide, to—

To steel himself.

His hills encased his mind still, impassable. But he didn't want to keep anyone _out_. He wanted to—

He wanted to get _in_.

_Father?_ he asked. _How do I—_

A spark, the beam across the door to the backroom collapsing, broke his attention. He flinched.

There was a cold touch against his mind; he glared at Palpatine, who even now tried to pry open his bond with his father, to hurt them both—

And _dived_.

Palpatine's shields loomed like a thick, stone wall. But in that moment he'd tried to get into Luke's mind, he'd had to leave his own open.

And Luke took the opportunity with _vigour_.

Images flashed to mind. Padmé Amidala's funeral, and the bag of mirth, fury, vindictiveness that accompanied it; walking into a bookshop to see the ghost of a child who should be dead, and the glee that came with realising Vader knew nothing; the fire and the heat and the rage and the knowledge that _he barely cared _if he died here, he knew his precious Imperials would never regain their status and he _hated_ Vader and Padmé and the Organas for their part in that, so _he would make them pay_—

Luke had never wanted to understand evil so thoroughly.

But he had to, to understand exactly why Palpatine had hidden the key behind the handwritten, cursive sign for the _Science Fiction & Fantasy_ bookshelf.

The card was high enough, close enough to the front windows—_so that it gleams and taunts when the rest of the shop is ablaze—_that it hadn't caught fire yet. His gaze found it instantly and he _ran_, ignoring his father's shouting in his head, ignoring the sirens that blared—the brigade were here. None of that mattered.

He cried out. It hurt, it hurt _so much_, but he shoved the pain away. He brushed his hand through the rain of charred scraps of paper that used to be books people had read and loved, letting every emotion from every reader flood through him and flood out again, like a flood scourging the riverbed dry.

He picked up the sign and there it was. Conveniently near to the door, for Palpatine's escape, and Luke fumbled for the key immediately, limping over to the door...

The fires continued to rage...

His head spun. Smoke still choked him, choked the room; the faster he moved, the harder he found it to breathe; his vision was dark and he wasn't sure if it was the hit to his head or the smoke or his eyes, death getting a head start on him—

The third try. The fifth try. The ninth.

The key slid home and he turned it, grasping for the doorknob. He—couldn't—_pull_—

He collapsed, the fire licking at his heels, just as the door shattered inwards and scarred arms caught him as he fell.

* * *

Waking _hurt_.

It came in brief flashes, the smell of disinfectant and... _cleanliness_... and hands reached for him, frantic voices and calm voices and steady hands washing away in the sound of the sirens overhead. He thought he saw water spray, heard fires hiss, but then his mum's face eclipsed the evening sky and she smiled at him weakly.

"It's alright, Luke," she said. He distantly realised that his connection to Vader was cut off tightly, as tightly as could be. "You'll be alright."

Then he slipped away again.

* * *

He didn't remember much after that. Bits and pieces, jumbled together, snatched away before he could really know what they meant.

The emergency operations. A breathing mask on his face and the steady rasp of air into his lungs. People in white coats swarming—

Bright lights. White, painful to look at, but infinitely preferable to the amber glow of a flame.

When he came to, it was in a bed in what he tentatively identified, after a brief, dazed inspection, as a hospital room.

He hurt.

He must have drifted off again, because when he came to _again _there was a nurse checking in on him, and she smiled slightly when she realised he was awake.

"W— where..." he croaked, and she shook her head.

"Your dads are waiting outside, you might want them to explain instead," she said gently. "If you want them to come in?"

Luke tried to nod, realised _that_ hurt—why wasn't he surprised?—and made to say instead, "Ye—es."

She left, and a moment later Bail and Vader filed in.

There was only one chair next to the bed; after a heavy look between them, Bail took the seat and Vader loomed above them, so tall Luke almost had to crane his neck to meet his eye.

He could see both their gazes, one brown and one blue, flicker over him. Bail was far too... politicky... to ever express alarm at the sight of him, but Vader was not so savvy. The horror that twisted his face at the sight of Luke's injuries was...

"You look like shit yourself, you know," Luke told him. He did. He looked like he hadn't slept in a week.

Bail cringed. Vader laughed. "Not quite a week, little one," he said softly. "But I have not slept in a day or two, no."

Luke grimaced. The pain that shot through him at every little twitch was starting to get repetitive, now. "When—"

"It's been approximately forty hours since I got back to the house to find you gone, Luke," Bail said tightly. He was sat forward on the chair, hands laced together over his knees. Every inch of his body was taut. "You were not with Palpatine for long."

Luke croaked, "I'm sorry."

"What? No! No, it's not your fault you were kidnapped, it's just—" He shook his head. For the first time, Luke realised that his dad looked like shit as well.

His voice broke. "God, Luke. I was terrified. I was out for _twenty minutes_ then I got back and you were _gone_." He choked again. "I should've been there."

"We _all_ should've," Vader added. "If we'd been there to _protect_ you, instead of out pooling everything we knew about Palpatine to add to the case—"

"The case that got Luke through the enquiry and made it clear that he was not responsible for _arson_, Vader," Bail cut him off. "It— it would've been worthwhile to do, anyway—"

"But Luke was kidnapped, _shot_ and nearly _died_ because we were away. _In my own shop_."

Bail flinched. "Yes," he said, a little shakily. "Yes. But it had some uses."

"Dad," Luke said softly. He let it be ambiguous as to who he was addressing; to be frank, he meant both of them. "It's alright."

Vader snorted. "Look at yourself in the mirror," he said thickly, "and tell me again that it will be alright."

"The doctor said Luke just needs a few more operations, then he ought to heal well enough," Bail reminded him. "It wasn't as bad as it could've been. Luke is right. We'll all be fine."

"Well, _fine_ is a stretch," Luke added. "Jobal is going to murder me when she finds out what happened to her shop."

Vader, despite himself, barked a laugh at that.

"Where's Mum?" Luke asked, glancing at Bail. "Please tell me she's—"

"—verbally eviscerating the bloodthirsty swarm of reporters and tying up all the loose ends with the Palpatine investigation?" Bail smiled. "Oh, definitely."

Luke sank back against the pillow slightly, smiling into it.

And...

He was almost afraid to ask. "Palpatine?"

"Died in the fire." Vader's lips twisted into a slight snarl. "Good riddance."

Bail opened his mouth as if to chastise him, tilted his head, then closed it again with a vindictive nod. "Good riddance. But we're just settling the legalities. And the details. He's been causing trouble for a long time."

Luke swallowed. Glanced at Vader.

"I know."

His father was watching him sadly.

Bail reached for his shoulder, hesitated, then patted the bed instead. Luke was grateful; he didn't think he'd be able to take being touched right now. "I'll go call your mum," he said, "and get her on the phone."

Luke smiled and nodded. Bail reached for his phone and walked out.

Vader slid into the empty seat.

"I..." Luke began, then trailed off. "I... broke into Palpatine's mind, then, to find the key."

Vader was quiet for a moment. "I know you did."

"Was— was that—" He swallowed. "Was that wrong?"

"It... no doubt contributed to the fact that he perished. Was unable to think up a way to escape."

Luke glanced down at his hands and was ashamed to see tears streak down his sore face, splatter onto the white sheets. "Did I kill him?"

"No, Luke. He was killed by a fire of his own making."

Luke closed his eyes and felt his face crumple. "Okay. Thank you."

"Anything, son."

Still with his eyes closed, Luke ran his fingers over each other. The still-healing burns twinged—oh yeah. He'd chucked a burning book at Palpatine's face.

He opened his eyes. "What is this?" he asked, gesturing to his hands, expanding his mind to brush against Vader's. "What— what— _why_ do I have it?"

"It's a gift." Vader met his gaze steadily. Calmly. "It's a difficult gift, sometimes, and I know you have not had an easy time dealing with it, but I can show you how." He stage-whispered: "It's very good for winning card games."

Luke laughed. "I think my mum would kill me if she caught me at a casino."

"Young man," Vader puffed himself up and Luke laughed again, "I never said _anything_ about a casino."

"Why are we talking about casinos?" Bail walked back in, phone in his hand, looking faintly amused. He handed the phone—_Luke's_ phone—to him.

_"Luke! Are you alright?"_

Vader murmured a promise: "I'll be around to show you how to deal with it. I'm not leaving again."

Luke dipped his head. "Thank you, Father."

_"Luke?"_

He held the phone up to his ear. "Hey, Mum."

_"Your dad tells me you're feeling better?"_

"I am." Luke exchanged a humorous look with his dad, with his father, and said, "You know, I'm feeling well enough that, once I'm out of the hospital, maybe... we can still go to Jobal's for the holidays? All of us. You, Dad, Vader. You know what the Naberrie Christmas celebrations are like."

Breha laughed. _"I'm sure Jobal will be delighted to have the whole family there. Should I get her on the phone now?"_

"Yeah," he said, though Vader laughed at his cringe.

_"I'll call you back in a second."_ She clicked off. Luke smiled; she'd never been one to overstate her affection.

Vader smiled. "That sounds... wonderful." Then the melancholy tone receded. "Padmé always told me Jobal makes excellent Christmas cookies."

"She does," Luke agreed. His phone buzzed; he glanced down at it, heart skipping slightly when he saw who it was from. "And Sola and Ryoo have an ongoing competition of who can decorate the tree better..."

He grinned to himself as he read Biggs's message. _I know you were sick when I asked before, but I wanted to ask if maybe when you were feeling better you might be interested in..._

He grinned wider, and—_painstakingly slowly_, careful not to make his hands hurt too much—typed out his reply and sent it.

A response pinged back within moments. His cheeks genuinely hurt from grinning.

"By the way, you're the one who has to tell them all what happened to her shop."

Vader's eyes blew wide. "Now, there's no need to—"

"And..." Luke tilted his head, gave a tiny little laugh. Bail was watching him with an exasperated fondness. "By any chance, for a few days—before or after Christmas, any time, really..."

"Luke," Bail said.

"...Biggs could come visit?"

Vader laughed. Winter winds blasted the window, and Luke's phone buzzed again.

His own laughter faded into a smile when his grandmother's warm voice sounded in his ear.

**.**

**The End**

**.**

* * *

**Happy New Year!**


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